That's when it hits me—I don't just want to fuck her. I want to keep her. Protect her. Make sure nothing and no one ever hurts her or makes her doubt herself again.
But I also want to ruin her. I want to see those innocent eyes glazed with pleasure as I pound into her. Want to hear that sweet voice begging for my cock, my come, my claiming.
"What are you thinking about?" she asks suddenly. "You're looking at me so..."
"Intensely?" I finish for her.
She nods, taking another sip of wine. The alcohol has loosened her slightly, made her more relaxed in my presence. Good.
"I'm thinking about all the things I want to do to you." No point lying. She'll learn soon enough exactly what kind of man I am.
Instead of pulling back in shock, she blushes deeper, eyes dropping to the table. "Oh."
"Does that scare you?" I need to know. Need to gauge how careful I need to be.
She considers the question seriously. "Not scared exactly. Just…I don't have much experience with…that."
"With sex?" I clarify bluntly.
Her blush deepens to scarlet, but she doesn't look away. "Yes."
"Are you a virgin, Clara?" The question comes out rougher than I intended.
She hesitates, then nods once, a tiny confirmation that makes my cock jerk against my zipper.
Christ. A virgin. An innocent in every sense of the word. Something primitive and possessive roars to life inside me. I will be her first. Her only. No one else will ever know the taste of her, the feel of her coming apart.
"That's..." I struggle to find words that won't terrify her. "That's something special. Something to be treasured."
She looks up, surprised by my response. "Most guys run when they find that out."
"I'm not most guys." I reach across the table, take her hand in mine. Her fingers are so small compared to mine. So delicate. "And I'm not running anywhere."
Except straight to my penthouse with you, where I'll spend all night claiming every inch of your perfect body.
five
. . .
Clara
After dinner,Sabien insists on seeing me home. "Just to make sure you're safe," he says, but his eyes say something else entirely. Something that makes my skin tingle and my heart race. I should say no. I should call an Uber. Instead, I hear myself giving the driver my address—my awful, tiny apartment in the worst part of town. Shame heats my cheeks as we pull up to my building with its crumbling facade and flickering security light. But Sabien's face shows no judgment, just determination as he escorts me inside.
The stairwell smells like old cigarettes and someone's overcooked dinner. The elevator's been broken for months. I'm mortified as I lead him up four flights of stairs, apologizing with every step.
"Stop apologizing," he says firmly. "You're a student. This is temporary."
His confidence in my future success warms me more than it should.
When we reach my door, I fumble with the keys, hyperaware of his large presence behind me, the heat of him, the scent of his cologne. I finally get the door open and reach for the light switch.
Click. Nothing happens.
I try again. Still nothing.
"Power's out," I mutter, embarrassment burning hotter. "It happens sometimes. The building's wiring is ancient."
My tiny studio apartment is pitch dark except for the faint glow of streetlights through my single window. I can make out the shapes of my futon, my easel in the corner, the kitchenette that barely deserves the name.